


The Abyss Gazes Back

by The_Selective_Participater



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Sam, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Sam Winchester, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Selective_Participater/pseuds/The_Selective_Participater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark entity has been watching the eldest Winchester for years, intentions unknown. After years of harboring this secret he finally confides in Sam when things become too much for him to handle alone and now the brothers must race against time and Dean's failing body to find out what ever it’s planning before its too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I've been toying around with, I'll see how it goes. *shrugs*

The first time Dean saw it was after the fire that took away everything.

He was barefoot, no time to grab shoes when your house is burning down around you, clutching Sam to his chest waiting for his dad to appear from the flaming doorway. Someone was trying to take Sam from him and no he wouldn’t let go, couldn’t let go because his dad told _him_ to take Sammy and he wasn’t going to let anyone take Sammy away from him. Whoever it was, and thinking back it was probably an EMT or a concerned neighbor, eventually gave up and he looked up just in time to see John running across the lawn and towards him. His attention though was drawn to something else entirely. Standing in the doorway was a shadow, although not really. It was dark, so dark that it seemed to be sucking all the light around it into itself. It was about his height and even though it had no eyes, no features, he could tell that it was watching him. The stare was so palpable his skin crawled with an icy feeling.

“-ean, Dean!” He was suddenly aware of his dad’s concerned and slightly manic stare and his big hands firmly grasping his small shoulders.

He stared at his father with wide eyes but didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Suddenly his words were gone, burned away with his mom on that ceiling. John seemed to understand and he crouched down in front of him and pulled him into his arms, careful not to hurt Sammy.

“It’s ok Dean-o. It’s gonna ok.”

Watching as the firefighters fought back the flames with powerful jets of water his eyes once again found the Shadow and the numb feeling that had taken over when he ran out of the house was replaced with a deep seeded dread. He blinked and it was gone, as if it were never there in the first place.

In his arms Sam gave a small cry and his attention shifted immediately. He had more important things to worry about than some shadow he’d never see again. Probably never see again.

Probably.

…………………..

 

A few months pass before he sees it again.

He’s standing silently next to Uncle Bobby who’s underneath the impala, handing him tools whenever he asks. He’s pretty good at it. His dad and Sam are off getting Sammy his shots so it’s just the two of them.

Dean shivers and the familiar icy feeling drips down his spine like ice water. And there it is. At the end of the trees surrounding the property the Shadow stands watching him silently. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t really want to. It felt familiar. Normal even. He doesn’t notice the wrench slip from his slack fingers because suddenly the world starts to lose color, the vibrant colors of the junk cars and trees fading off into hues of gray. All sound is muffled as if he were underwater. Dean finds that he doesn’t mind. His head feels foggy, like it’s stuffed with cotton and he feels like he’s floating away. All the while he hasn’t broken contact with the Shadow. Suddenly there’s a sharp sting in his cheek and the colors and sound return so quickly that he’s dizzy but a hand is wrapped around his upper arm and it holds him steady as he sways.

“Ya with me kiddo?” He looks up into the concerned gaze of Uncle Bobby who takes a rag with his free hand and tilts his head back, applying pressure to his nose. It’s only then he can taste something coppery dripping over his lips. A nosebleed. He remembers that Bobby asked him a question and since he’s not talking he raises a shaky thumbs up.

“Where’d you go just then? Called ya a few times.”

He looks past Bobby to where he saw it and it’s gone, just like last time. Only now with the taste of blood on his tongue he knows without a doubt that it won’t be the last time he sees it.

…………………………….

 

The nosebleeds become common place, so do the dizzy spells and the spacing out. Sometimes if he doesn’t get control of the bleeding quick enough he passes out. The first time it happens John freaks out, thinking it’s some sort of side effect from smoke inhalation and immediately drives him to the hospital to run tests, of course they find nothing. He gets better at stopping it and it becomes a part of their regular lives.

Dean’s not an idiot. At the age of twelve he knows many things. He knows how to load, clean, maintain and shoot a gun. He knows about the things that go bump in the night. He knows that a demon killed his mom. So he knows that whatever this is, it has to do with the Shadow. Whatever is happening isn’t that much of a big deal, at least that what he tells himself when year after year passes and he still doesn’t mention it to his dad. John already had a lot on his plate and he didn’t feel the need to add anything more.

…………………………….

 

It’s his fourteenth birthday when he does something incredibly stupid.

Sam is fast asleep in the back seat wrapped in a blanket, his shaggy brown mop the only thing visible. They’ve stopped at a gas station for snacks and gas for the next leg of the trip. He watched his dad disappear into the store before taking a look around. He freezes when he sees it. He’s not surprised that it’s much taller than the last time he saw it, almost exactly as tall as he is, but he’s surprised that it’s just this _close_. It’s standing right by the hood of the impala, staring intently into the car at him.

He knows that he should stay in the car. He knows he’s not supposed to leave Sammy in the car alone but that doesn’t stop him from reaching for the door handle and stepping outside. He doesn’t feel the hazy feeling that usually comes with one of its visits instead he feels nothing. He takes a step forward and it doesn’t react so he takes another and another until he’s an arm’s length away. Tentatively he reaches out and touches it.

At first there is nothing but a cool mist enveloping his fingers, not unlike dry ice. Then it’s like he’s been struck by lightening, hit by a truck and set on fire all at the same time. He opens his mouth to scream but suddenly there’s only darkness and he welcomes it gladly.

And that is how his father found out. It must have been quite a shock to watch his eldest son touch what was seemingly thin air and drop like a stone before convulsing right there on the rough dirty asphalt. Dean doesn’t remember much after that besides bits and pieces as he drifted in the state between consciousness and unconsciousness but he remembers how touching anything hurt his skin. He remembers his dad frantically telling him to stay awake, Sam’s worried face hovering over his while small cold hands pat his face. He blacks out, again, and that’s all he remembers from that night.

The conversation with his dad after he wakes up 17 hours later is anything but comforting. They’re sitting in the impala because he refused to say anything in front of Sam. This was his problem.

_You will tell me what’s going on right now, Dean, and don’t you dare lie to me. I want 100% honesty._

Maybe I shouldn’t have to tell you. Maybe you should have noticed that something has been wrong for _years_. Maybe if you remembered that you were part of a family every now and then I wouldn’t have to deal with this by myself. He doesn’t say any of this; instead he does what he’s asked and gives the clinical detached version about what has been happening to him for nearly a decade, right under his father’s nose. John’s demeanor changes completely after hearing the perturbing details.

_Ok son, we’ll figure this out together. I won’t let anything happen to you ok?_

He nods but inside he knows that no one can save him.

 

……………………………

 

As much as Dean wishes he was wrong, he wasn’t. They find nothing. They scour countless books, journals, manuscripts, websites, they even confide in Bobby with all his resources and connections and still they have nothing. Dean of course takes this in stride; he never expected to find anything but John on the other hand is vexed. The idea that he couldn’t protect his own family nearly drives him over the edge but he just manages to keep it together. With nothing to work with his dad resorts to protection charms, sigils and spells hoping that something, _anything_ , will work but nothing does. And how could his father fight something that only he could see. Something not from this physical plane. They continue to keep Sam in the dark about their ‘situation’ and for that he’s grateful, he’d rather not complicate the kid’s life any further.

 

It takes a couple years but eventually John resigns himself to the idea that this is something that they just have to live with. All in all it’s not so bad. He doesn’t feel threatened by it and the only time he was really harmed by it was when he touched it, something he vowed to never do again.

………………………………

 

It all goes to hell on his 18th birthday.

With Sam staying with Bobby while they wrapped up a hunt that was deemed too dangerous for him to stay in the car as usual, John thought it would be a good idea to celebrate his newfound adulthood at a classier than usual bar. Dean had to admit it was more than he expected. His dad was not the celebratory type. Not that he blamed his father; he knew he had more important things on his mind, like ganking monsters and saving the innocent. But on these occasional moments where they had time to be father and son not just partners he found himself wishing that moments like these could happen more often but life just didn’t work that way.

They spent the better part of their outing playing pool, shooting the shit, and splitting a plate of buffalo wings between them. They’re sitting at the bar, Dean noting how just like him the skin around his dad’s eyes crinkled whenever he smiled, when he sees it. It’s close. Real fucking close, its standing right behind his father and he involuntarily tenses. His father must have seen something in his expression because his smile is replaced with a concerned frown. Dean shakes his head. He’ll never get used to its sudden appearances.

“I’m fi-“

The words dry up as he watches the Shadow dart its arm forward and through his father’s chest. He hears the sounded of splintered bones. He smells the coppery stench of blood, too much blood. He feels the warm blood splatter on his skin. It runs down his face in rivulets and pools at the collar of his shirt, soaking through the layers of shirts. In the next second his stool clatters against the floor when he suddenly stands.

“Dean?” John calls, but how. How is he-he…

“Son?” His dad is now standing but the Shadow’s hand is still protruding from his chest and _oh god_ John’s still beating heart is in its grasp. John takes a step towards him dislodging himself from its arm and he lurches back away from his grasp.

“S-Stay away!” His terrified shout attracts the attention of other bar patrons but they have no reaction to his dad and his gaping chest wound. Why weren’t they screaming, why didn’t anyone care?

His dad takes another step towards him and he mirrors the movement taking another step backwards.

“Dean, it’s ok son. You’re ok.” Blood bubbles past his lips and lazily trails down his chin and Dean’s stomach lurches. He glances around but no one is looking at his should-be-dead father, instead they’re all looking at him as if he’s the crazy one. And for a moment he entertains the idea that maybe this isn’t real, that it’s some sort of fucked up nightmare that his brain conjured up just to mess with him but it’s too real. It’s too damn real and he needs to get out, get away.

Without a second thought he darts past his father and out of the bar. He sees the impala and never has he been so glad to feel its cool keys in his jacket pocket and he puts on a burst of speed. Before he can get the key into the door something barrels into him and his head connects solidly with the roof of the car. Vision swimming he lashes out at the hands trying to restrain him. It’s hard with the blood pouring from his temple dripping into his eyes but he manages to land a few solid blows.

“Dean! Dean damnit look at me! Dean!”

It sounds like his dad but it can’t be because he just watched him die. It killed him. It killed his dad and now it’s fucking with him. But he can’t go against a direct command from his dad or what sounded like his dad. It’s engrained into his very being and damn it all he stops struggling because what he’s looking at _is_ his dad. The blood, the huge gaping hole in his chest, everything is gone as if it never happened, including the blood that previously covered his face and clothes. His dad is ok and more importantly not dead.

He lunges forward and John grunts at the force of the impact but Dean is too busy burying himself against his father’s solid chest to care, his hands grip John’s shirt and shit he’s crying, sobbing like he’s four years old again. John tightens his arms around his trembling body and murmurs nonsense meant to comfort.

“It’s ok, Dean. We’re ok. You hear me son? Everything’s ok.”

Eventually the tears taper off and he’s left feeling drained and not just physically. And the embarrassment of breaking down in front of his freaking dad is starting to creep in and he just wants the ground to open up and swallow him right now. Instead he chooses to duck his head even though he’s still on the ground practically in his father’s lap and his hand still retains its iron grip on his dad’s shirt.

“Dean?” John’s usual growl is nothing more but a soft rumble but even then he can’t bring himself to look up.

“C’mon Dean, look at me. Please?” And in a completely non-John-like gesture he gently cups his jaw until he lifts his head and peers into his dad’s dark hazel eyes and is surprised to see fear in them.

“Dean, what was that in there?”

“Y-you were…you…” He moved his hand from where it was gripping his dad’s shirt to just over his heart where the gaping hole is- _was_. The strong thrum beneath his hand proved that this was real but his breath still hitched and his throat and the words spilled out in a rush.

“You were dead. Dead! It-it had your heart in its hand. There was blood, so much blood-“

“Hey, Dean. I’m ok. I need you to breathe for me ok? Nice and slow. Ok? I need you to listen to me right now. It _wasn’t_ real. None of that happened you hear me son. I’m alright. Whatever you saw was just that _thing_ messing with you.”

“I know dad, its just…”

“It’s ok. I get it. Let’s get you back to the motel. I don’t think that cut needs stitches but I need to clean it out…sorry about that by the way, didn’t want to risk you driving in your state.”

“S’ok.” With that John helped him to his feet and with an arm around his waist helped him hobble over to the passenger seat before carefully placing him inside.

Back at the hotel John sat him on the bed furthest from the door and carefully cleaned the wounded and sealed it with a few butterfly bandages. By the time he was done Dean’s eyes were half lidded and he began to slowly slump on his side, the adrenaline rush from earlier finally wearing off. He blinked lethargically as John removed his boots, jeans and over shirt before lifting his legs up and on the bed. Covers settled over his shoulders and were carefully tucked in.

“Dad?” Dean called, the exhaustion making it come out as more of a whisper.

“Hm?”

“Don’t leave me ok?”

“Never will kiddo.” But Dean was already fast asleep.

“Never will.”


	2. Blood is Thicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline is Season Two-ish  
> Yes I am very much a fan of time jumps.  
> Exhibit A:

_Shit shit shit shit_

Sam kept up the litany of curses as he ducked and dodged through the dense underbrush. The adrenaline drowning out all sound but the hammering of his heart, his feet pounding the hard ground. Stopping abruptly he strained listening for a sound, any sound to give him an idea as to where his idiot brother had gone off to.

“Shit.” He muttered to himself for good measure when he was met with complete silence.  
Flexing his fingers around the flare gun he made to go back the way he came from when he heard it- a howl. Immediately after the sky lit up with a brilliant red light. The flare gun signifying that his brother was within shooting distance of the very thing they were hunting and more importantly that he only had one more shot before he was left defenseless and alone with a very hungry and very pissed off Wendigo.

Taking off in the direction the shot was fired he heard a sound that froze the very blood in his veins.

Dean screaming in pure agony.

He put on a burst of speed breaking into a small clearing, taking in the scene before him. The Wendigo stood to its full height, back towards him, snarling as it advanced on a sprawled figure a couple feet in front of it. Dean lay slumped against a tree, an arm pressed against his side, the other held out in front of him gun aimed at the beast’s chest. An easy shot, a shot that he could have easily taken with one hand tied behind his back. But as Sam watched Dean’s hand wavered before slowly lowering to rest beside him. With a guttural snarl the Wendigo launched itself towards the elder Winchester.

Two shots was all it took.

One to the shoulder redirecting its attention towards him and the second hitting it dead center in the chest, igniting the beast in bright flames. With a final screech the Wendigo disintegrated into a cloud of ash and Sam was racing to his unmoving brother.

“Hey hey hey, Dean, come on open you’re eyes man.” Now that he was up close it was obvious that the damage was much worse than he originally thought. Dean was pale, icy to the touch. Slight tremors racked his body and his breaths came out in harsh pants accompanied by the occasional whimper of pain. His eyes were screwed tightly shut seemingly unaware of Sam’s presence. But Sam was more worried about the blood that was currently seeping through the knees of his jeans. Maneuvering his brother until he was laying flat on his back he placed a comforting hand on Dean’s forehead as he hissed buckling beneath his touch.

“Shh, its ok. I gotcha. Shh.” He kept up the soothing words while he quickly but carefully removed his brother’s jacket to assess the full extent of the damage.

“Oh God…Dean…” He whispered as he pulled away Dean’s blood soaked shirt to reveal the ragged angry wounds underneath. Three deep gashes cut across his abdomen ending just below his ribs. Two of the gashes were no longer bleeding but the one on his side continued to bleed profusely. Discarding his jacket and removing his over shirt he started on making a pressure bandage that he pressed against the worst of the wounds. Dean violently flinched away from the flare of pain caused by the pressure as his hands weakly fought to dislodge Sam’s hands.

“Sorry, I have to stop the bleeding ok? Its ok, its gonna be ok Dean.” His free hand ran through the short spiky hair offering whatever bit of comfort he could. Dean’s eyes fluttered before they opened revealing glassy eyes. His green eyes rolled aimlessly before latching on to his younger brother’s hazel ones, his expression an odd mix of concern and…disappointment?

“S’mmy?” He croaked and Sam noticed that blood spotted his nearly colorless lips. _Internal bleeding_. Sam catalogued in the list of injuries that was steadily growing.

“Yeah man, I’m right here.”

“Y-you…g-et it?”

“It’s dead. We need to get you to a hospital. I can’t fix this one myself man. I-I can’t…”

“…Kay.” And if that didn’t send his heart rate skyrocketing. No one hated hospitals as much as his big brother. He and Bobby often teased Dean about his obvious phobia but now he wasn’t even putting up the obligatory fight.

“Hey, Dean I need you to stay awake for me, ok?” Sam placed a warm hand against Dean’s worryingly cold cheek trying not to panic when Dean’s breath was coming in shorter and shallower intervals. His eyelids fluttered, closing for seconds at a time. He needed to get Dean to the hospital _now_.

_Fuck_. He cursed under his breath when he thought about the trek back to the car. Dean had insisted on parking his “baby” far from the woods, not wanting to scratch the precious paint job. Sliding an arm around his brother’s waist he hefted most of Dean’s weight against his side as he slowly stood and started in the direction of the impala.

He managed to keep his cool when Dean started coughing bringing up more and more blood with each body racking bark followed by wet gasping breathing.

He didn’t panic when he carefully arranged Dean in the passenger seat of the impala before speeding off to the nearest hospital and Dean finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

But his heart threatened to leap out of his chest when the shallow breathing that he was intently listening to, the sound that let him know that everything was going to be ok, that _he_ was ok suddenly stopped right as the impala screeched to a halt right in front of the emergency room doors. Racing around the impala he threw open the door hefting his brother who, _holy shit_ , was much heavier than he looked. Before he could shout for help a gurney followed by an array of medical personal swept around him. He watched frozen to the spot in the lobby as they loaded his lifeless brother unto the gurney shouting things like _cardiac arrest_ and _pneumothorax_. During their ministrations Dean’s blood spotted hand flopped down hanging off the gurney and Sam’s world shrunk down to that one image. Through tear-blurred eyes he watched as his brother was rushed off between double doors leaving him standing in the lobby covered in his brother’s blood-too much of his brother’s blood- and completely alone.

 

…………………………………

 

_4 weeks later_

“Dude you need to get laid.”

Sam chocked, the gulp of orange juice he’d just swallowed making an unwelcome second appearance. Dean watched disinterested as his brother wiped his face with a napkin.

The younger Winchester looked around the small diner that they were currently eating in, well he was eating Dean had done nothing more than push his food around his plate, noting no one noticed his embarrassing reaction to his brother’s usual antics. After all these years you’d think he would be used to his brother’s blunt and forthright commentary but it still had the same effect that it always did.

“What are you talking about? And eat your eggs.” Dean looked down at the plate, grimaced and pushed it even further away. Sam frowned taking in the pale sight of his brother remembering those terrifying weeks at the hospital.

After he watched his lifeless brother disappear behind the double doors he stared at the doors for what felt like days before making his way to the waiting room chairs on wobbly legs. He shifted, back pressed against the hard plastic trying to find a comfortable position for his tall frame. It was some kind of fucking conspiracy, it couldn’t be coincidence that every hospital waiting room in America was made to be as uncomfortable and stifling as possible. Or maybe it was the fact that he spent more time in hospitals more than the average person. As he sat there in the chair forged by Satan himself, he didn’t try to stop nor cared about the tears blearing his vision and falling to soak into his already bloody jeans. He took several shuddering breaths but that only caused the tears to fall quicker as his shoulders quaked with the effort to not just fucking fall apart. He needed to keep it together, for Dean. After several minutes he managed to get his breathing as near to normal as he could manage and made his way to the bathroom and scrubbed the blood from his hands and arms until his skin was pink and painful with the effort. Splashing cold water cleared his mind a bit and he made his way back to the waiting the room where he was intercepted by a nurse. He provided the necessary documents- fake of course- and answered the typical questions.

 

_Yeah, that’s right, a bear. Came out of nowhere. I managed to shoot it._

_He doesn’t do well with anesthesia._

_Or any sedatives, makes him nauseous._

_No, not allergic just has bad reactions._

_Blood type? O negative._

With a sympathetic smile probably perfected over the years she inclined her head towards the waiting room with a “someone will be with you shortly”. Shortly turned out to be an eternity or two hours and forty-six minutes. He was very much aware of every minute. When the Doctor did finally arrive the grim look on his face did very little to calm his already shot to hell nerves. Dr. Henderson, a tall balding black man shook his hand, not at all intimidated by the blood spattered man who leapt up crowding into his personal space.

“How is he?”

After the brief discussion Sam was once again left alone, hunched in his seat. He wiped a shaking hand over his mouth releasing a shaky breath.

_Coma._

His stomach clenched painfully at the thought. Dean in the true Winchester fashion had a severe reaction to the anesthetic after… _dying_ several times on the operating table. His brother had to be placed on a ventilator while his collapsed lung was being re-inflated. He also had a few fractured ribs but what they were worried about was the sheer amount of blood that he lost.

_Your brother’s a very lucky man Mr. Singer._

Lucky? Yeah sure.

 

“-ey? You in there buddy?”

Sam snapped out of his morbid thoughts with a shudder. It was close. So damn _close_.

“Eat your eggs.” He repeated pushing his brother’s plate closer to him. Dean continued to stare at him with the piercing big brother look that had him squirming in his seat.

“Y’kay?” He finally asked.

“I’m fine. I should be asking you that.” Dean’s green eyes narrowed as his brows dipped into a scowl. _Fuck, here we go again_. Sam thought to himself.

“I’m fine, ok? You don’t need to keep asking. Stop treating me like a freaking invalid!”

“Damn it Dean! You’re not fine. You were in a fucking coma for God’s sake! You lost a shit ton of blood, y-you died four times on the operating table. The doctor said it would take weeks for your blood count to get back where it was and since you _refused_ to go to another hospital for the transfusions all I can do is get as much iron as I can into you, but I can’t do that if you don’t _eat your fucking eggs!_ I can’t- I can’t…”

The eldest Winchester’s face immediately softened at his brother’s distress.

“Hey.” Dean spoke softly, bumping his knee against his younger brother’s in apology. “I’ll eat ‘em ok? Ok Sammy?”

“Ok.” Sam mumbled feeling his face heat up as his impromptu fit attracted the stares of the other patrons of the diner.

“Better hurry.” Dean grumbled between bites. “These _weirdoes_ are giving me the creeps.” He stressed the word weirdoes making sure everyone heard the insult. Sam tried but failed to stifle his laugher and lost his resolve completely at Dean’s theatrical eyebrow wiggle and grin. Dean always had that affect on people. His ability to diffuse any situation was almost supernatural even.

“The only weirdo I see here is you.” He quipped, earning him a balled up napkin to the face.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

 

…………………………….

 

Leave it to Dean to make things as difficult as they could possibly be. Yeah ok so having a very rare blood type wasn’t something that he could necessarily control but still, it sucked, big time. The hospital where Dean was treated lacked the needed O negative and suggested that the brothers tried their luck at the bigger city hospital which Dean without delay refused, threatening to ‘pull a prison break’ if he spent another night within its walls.

_I’m not driving my baby across the damn country for **blood**. I’m fine._

That’s how he found himself following closely behind his brother making sure he didn’t face plant-again. The first time scared the crap out of him, it came with no warning. He was reading up on a possible case in the area when he heard the loud thud, wrenching the bathroom door open he was greeted with the sight of his brother crumpled in a heap bleeding sluggishly from where his head connected with the sink. Which was exactly what they needed, Dean losing even _more_ blood.

They made it into the room without incident and Dean promptly shed his jacket and boots before grabbing the remote and sat back, head against the headboard, socked feet crossed at the ankles. When Sam checked them into a motel much much nicer than their usual seedy accommodations Dean grumbled but immediately changed his tune once he realized the room included complimentary cable. The younger Winchester tried not to tease Dean too much for basically watching Dr. Sexy M.D. every waking moment. No matter how much he really _really_ wanted to.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower, if you need anything uh call or whatever.” Sam finished lamely. Dean grunted in response.

After 5 weeks if there was anything Sam learned it was that being a caretaker was really not his cup of tea. Beyond the fact that he had no experience with taking care of a human being besides himself, he had no idea how to even begin. Dean was always the caregiver. Illness, injury, shelter, he always had it covered. It was a role that he was most comfortable in. It was the complete opposite for Sam. Ever since the Wendigo incident he’s been filled with a feeling of complete unease, verging on the edge of anxiety. He had no clue what he was doing. No idea. He never realized just how much work went into taking care of another person. Yet Dean managed to raise Sam and keep John from imploding for years all on his own while just being a kid himself. He felt like he was failing his brother in every way that mattered.

His ‘quick’ shower ended up being more than an hour. He dressed in the bathroom stepping out he shivered at the shift of temperature. Dean was in the same position he’d left him, completely still. The TV cast an eerie glow around the dim room, making the older man look even paler if that was even possible at this point. Dean showed no signs of noticing his presence. Sam frowned. That had been happening a lot lately since the incident. Dean had these moments where he would go still and zone out. The doctor said it was expected for an individual who suffered from severe blood loss like his brother had to experience fatigue amongst other things but it was still disconcerting to see his big brother’s slackened fingers and dull expression.

“Dean?” He cautioned. When he received no answer he called a bit louder stepping into his brother’s line of vision. Dean inhaled sharply, glassy eyes focusing before he turned in his direction.

“Y’kay Dean?” Sam asked torn between reaching out and physically reassuring himself that Dean was actually here with him and _alive_ , and respecting his brother’s no chick-flick moments rule. Dean blinked once, twice before answering.

“…Yeah. Tired s’all. Gonna get some sleep.”

Sam took in Dean’s pale gaunt face, the dark circles that seemed to get darker the more Dean slept-and he slept a lot, it wasn’t uncommon for Sam to glance over to the passenger seat and find Dean, face pressed against the window, asleep after being awake for only a few hours. He knew there was something more to it than just the blood loss. The part of him that was tuned to his brother more than any other person, the part that knew when something, anything was wrong with his brother was sending out warning signals. He wanted to corner Dean, force him to _talk damn it._

Scream. _Just fucking talk to me. I’m your brother!_

Shake him. _Let me help you._

Hug him. _Please_ don’t shut me out. Please.

But he did none of that instead he watched as Dean shut off the TV, turning on his side, back facing him curled into a near fetal position. _When did he start doing that?_

“Night.” Dean’s gruff voice murmured.

“Night Dean.”


	3. Enter Sandman

Dean was rubbing at his scars again.

Sam hefted the bag holding the containers of salt and accelerant needed for the salt and burn over his shoulder and turned towards his brother. Dean was still leaning against the passenger side of the impala, hand underneath his shirt, fingers more than likely tracing the scars left behind by the Wendigo’s claws.

“Hey.”

Slightly glazed eyes met his and he stepped closer frowning slightly. It’s been over a month since the incident and although his brother was doing much better he still had moments where he would drift off. The times were few and far in between but it was still cause for concern during a hunt where attentiveness was the difference between life and death.

“You ok?”

Dean smirked before scooping the two shovels from the ground and tucking the shotgun underneath his arm before walking ahead.

“Never better, Sammy.

 

…………………..

 

Surprisingly the hunt went without a hitch and the spirit of Marguerite Williamson was put to rest without either of them being thrown into a headstone or tree or strangled as usual. The bones were dug up, salted, burned and reburied in under an hour. Sam opted to drive and strangely enough Dean only glared at him before tossing the keys over.

They’d been driving for five minutes to the mellow vocals of Lynyrd Skynyrd when Sam risked a sideways glance at an abnormally quiet Dean and did a double take when he saw the twin rivers of dark blood snaking from his nose and over his lips. Dean, seemingly unaware, remained motionless and made no move to stop it. He steered the car to the side of the road and turned his brother’s face to snap him out of it, whatever it was. The physical contact seemed to do the trick and Dean blinked then grimaced pulling away from him to tilt his head forwards and pinch the fleshy part of his nose.

Leaning over to rummage through the glove compartment Sam gathered a handful of tissues and handed them over. Dean accepted them with a muffled thanks. He pulled back onto the road anxious to get back to the motel to get the bleeding under control. Dean’s nose bleeds weren’t that uncommon but with the recent blood loss he wanted to avoid his brother losing any more. A few minutes later they pulled into the lot and into an empty parking spot.  
Sam quickly walked around to the passenger just as his brother stepped out and he gripped the hand Dean flung out for balance. Dean frowned but didn’t let go as they made their way towards their room. As soon as the door was open he led his brother into the bathroom and sat him on the closed toilet lid.

“Ib fi’e Samb.”

“Whatever, Dean.” He grabbed a small towel off a rack and after testing the running water soaked the edge with warm water.

“Du’e no.” Dean swatted at his hand trying to grab at the towel but he easily deflected and raised it towards his brother’s face.

“Samb, stahp.” He leaned backwards and away from the towel and immediately started chocking when blood trickled down the back of his throat and he accidently inhaled.

“Damn it, Dean. Stop being an ass for just a minute and let me do this!”

Feeling properly admonished Dean let him tilt his head forward again to check if the bleeding had stopped and it had. He discarded the bloody tissues and crouching used the warm towel to carefully wipe away the dried blood from his brother face and neck. When he was sure he’d gotten it all he pulled the stopper in the sink and filled it up with water to let the bloodied towel soak.

“Shirt.” He waited patiently while Dean removed the bloody shirt and tossed it in with the towel. With that out of the way he turned and his eyes were immediately drawn to the pale scars bisecting his brother’s abdomen. Without thinking he reached over and traced a finger over the worst one, the one that wouldn’t stop bleeding all those nights ago. Dean’s breath hitched and he quickly pulled his hand away looking up to see any signs of pain on the eldest Winchester’s face. Instead Dean looked perplexed instead of pained. Hesitantly he reached out and traced the same scar with a feather light touch.

“Does that hurt?” He asked after he dropped his hand.

“No…It’s…weird.”

“Weird how?”

Dean traced the same scar for a few seconds before shrugging. “Sorta itches? Like pins and needles.” He looked up at him and Sam saw his eyes were half-lidded and he swayed slightly where he stood. Dean’s nose bleeds were always followed by bouts of fatigue.

“Come on. You need sleep.” Dean hummed in agreement so he steered his drowsy brother towards the beds. Dean must have really been out of it because he didn’t protest when Sam sat him down on the best farthest from the door, _his_ usual spot. He rummaged through Dean’s bag for a clean shirt and turned to see his brother already slumped against the pillow.

“Hey, come on. Can’t sleep yet.”

“Sleep, Sammy sleep.”

“In a minute bro.” He wrestled Dean into a somewhat upright position and wrestled the shirt over his head and pulled his arms through the holes. Dean tried to slump against the bed again but Sam kept a firm grip on his upper arm.

“Nope. Not yet. Gotta get those jeans off dude.”

“Noo…sleep. Sleeep.” Sam couldn’t help but smile at his big brother who regressed to a five year old whenever he was tired. With a sigh he let his brother flop sideways onto the bed and wrestled his boots and jeans off before lifting his legs and plopping them on the bed. Dean immediately flipped over onto his back and in the next moment his breath slowed and he was fast asleep. He wrestled the blanket from underneath his brother and tucked it over the tired man before changing out of his own clothes.

He laid the salt lines down and checked the locks and windows before switching off the bedside lamp and crawling underneath his own blankets. The moonlight filtering through the curtains cast an eerie glow that blanketed the room in a soft blue light and he laid listening to the sound of his brother’s even breathing until it lured him into sleep.

 

……………………………

 

The room was vaguely familiar.

It was a bit on the plain side. A couple toys scattered across the floor and a small bed adorned with racecar themed bedding clued him in to the fact that it was a child’s bedroom. Dean slowly turned trying to figure out what it was about this place that gave him the feeling of _home_. His eyes drifted over to the small bed and a small lump on one of its pillows. Stepping closer he froze, rooted to the spot when his brain finally comprehended what he saw. With a trembling hand he reached out and gripped the stuffed bear.

He remembered this bear.

Zeppelin the Bear.

 _His_ bear.

The familiarity he felt since he woke in this place was because it was his room. Back when he had a room to call his own. Back before everything went to shit. Before his mom…his grip on Zeppelin tightened and he couldn’t deny that it brought him some comfort. Usually dreams of before included fire and panic and helplessness and thick smoke that wrapped its hands around his throat and squeezed until he startled awake shaking and gasping for breath. But this… this was peaceful, normal even.

With Zeppelin in hand he made his way out the door and into the hallway that he spent countless days racing his toy cars and on occasion built pillow forts to keep out monsters and bad guys. As he approached the top of the stairway he could make out the sound of a soft female voice singing along to what might have been a radio. He slowly made his way down the stairs following the voice until he reached what he remembered to be the kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through multiple windows bathing everything in a soft glow and there standing at the sink was the source of the singing. She wore a simple white sundress that swayed with her every movement. Her golden hair fell past her shoulders and shimmered where it caught the suns rays. Dean stood rooted to the spot and stared. He was so afraid, afraid that if he made one wrong move the moment would be ripped away from him just as she had been all those years ago. But he had to talk to her, had to see her face even if just for a moment.

“Mom?” The words came out a little more than a whisper but she must have heard because she turned and Mary Winchester was just like he remembered. Her singing stopped as she glanced behind her. When she saw him she smiled wide and carefree her green eyes identical to his own glimmering.

“Dean, hey baby what’s wrong?” She reached an arm out towards him and with two strides he was in her arms melting into her embrace. Even though he knew this wasn’t real, that it was just his mind projecting one of his deepest desires he let himself pretend, if just for a moment. At his height he towered over her but as she carded her fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck he felt small again, dwarfed by her warmth and strong arms.

“Mom.” He said the word again, savoring the feeling that the word brought him. She pulled back to look at him and frowned slightly. Not wanting to see that look on her face, especially because of him, he managed a shaky smile.

“I’m ok. I just… I just miss you so much.” She smiled again and patted his cheek.

“I miss you too baby. I wish we could see each other more often like this.” She gripped the hand not holding Zeppelin tightly in hers. “I wish I could have been there for you, Dean. You and Sam.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. You didn’t deserve to die. Dad shouldn’t be in hell-“

“You’re right. None of us deserved this Dean.” He frowned at the cold edge to her voice. The sunlight that filled the kitchen space suddenly dimmed throwing everything into shadows.

“Mom-“

“None of us deserved _you_ , Dean.” Her grip on his hand became painfully tight and he grimaced at the feeling of bone grinding against bone. He attempted to pull away but she drew closer, a grin that moments ago filled him with longing now sent a shiver down his spine.

“W-what are you talking about?”

The predatory smile suddenly vanished and she viciously twisted his hand and he cried out, falling to his knees when he heard the sickening crack of his wrist snapping.

“Don’t give me that bullshit! You know, deep deep down inside where you don’t let anyone in, not even _Sammy_ , that _you_ are the family curse. You Dean.”

Panting harshly he looked up into his mother’s fiery emerald eyes. He knew. He knew she was right. He was a fuck-up. A fuck-up who didn’t have the balls to leave those he claimed to love, to save them the pain and misery that seemed to follow him since birth. He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. He deserved this; he had no right to cry. He flinched against the gentle brush against his cheek, sweeping away the trail of tears.

“Let’s see, John finally left you behind and _you_ just couldn’t stand being alone so you went to poor little Sammy, who finally found happiness at Stanford far far away from big brother. _You_ took him away from dear sweet Jess who had no one to protect her and she burned for it. Because of _you_ Sam lost the love of his life.”

  
Dean wanted to scream, deny it, but the moment he opened his mouth to protest Mary’s hand snapped forward and his head whipped backwards, his mouth filling with the coppery taste of his own blood.

“Don’t interrupt mommy when she’s talking baby.” She released her hold on his hand and he cradled the broken wrist to his chest. “Anyways where was I? Oh yeah, John. He left you Dean and somehow you found him. Now he’s burning in Hell for your worthless hide. Do you know what they do to souls down in Hell Dean? I know you think about it.”

“S-shut up. I-“

“Oh, Dean, please. You and I both know it’s true. I can see inside you Dean. You believe it more than anyone.” Mary looked off into the distance, head tilted as if listening to something that only she could hear before turning her attention back to him.

“Ok, Dean. This has been a nice little chat and all but we really need to be getting down to business.” She looked down at him with a slight frown. “Mm let’s go somewhere a little more comfy.”

In the next moment Dean found himself lying on his back on something cold and flat. A putrid stench filled the air and he fought to keep the contents of his stomach right where they were. Although neither his arms nor legs were bound he found that he couldn’t move anything besides his eyes.

“That’s much better right baby?”

“Bite me bitch.” He tracked Mary with his eyes as she circled him, appraising him with a knowing smile.

“Ooh there’s that feisty spirit. Ok no more games.” With a single tug she ripped his shirt off and tossed it aside. A single finger traced the largest of his scars and he shivered underneath her cold touch and scrutiny. Suddenly a blade appeared in her hand, she twirled it slowly letting the light glint off of its sharp edge. His throat closed and suddenly this nightmare seemed all too real. He closed his eyes taking deep breaths.

_This isn’t real. I just have to wake up. Like right now._

“Aw don’t close your eyes baby boy, you’re gonna miss all the fun.”

_Not real. Just a nightmare. Wake up Dean. Wake up._

He felt the cold edge of the blade press against his scar with slight pressure. He hissed as something warm welled up and ran down his side.

_Ok wake the fuck up man. This actually hurts. It hurts a fucking lot._

“Yeah, taking this slow and steady is not as satisfying as I thought it would be. Let’s speed this up shall we.” Dean watched panic welling up but he couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t _anything_. He watched as Mary lifted the blade high above her head before addressing him.

“You might want to close your eyes Dean; it’s going to get messy.”

The knife plunged into him.

 

………………………………

 

Sam shot up in bed, gun cocked and ready to fire but nothing leapt at him and no danger made itself known. Then he heard the sound again, a strange mix between a whimper and a groan. Switching on the bedside lamp he froze before leaping off his bed and crossing over to his thrashing brother. Dean’s hands were tangled in the sheets almost as if he were tied down. His back arched off the bed as he gave a strangled cry through clenched teeth.

“Dean!” He grabbed his brother’s shoulder, shaking when he received no response. Dean buckled again breath coming in fast and ragged.

“Dean! Hey! Wake up damnit!”

Not seeing any other option he cocked his hand back prepared to slap his brother into consciousness but Dean suddenly stopped struggling and slumped bonelessly against the bed. For a terrifying moment Sam thought that maybe Dean was _dead_. But in the next moment his brother’s eyes shot open and Sam was shoved aside as Dean bolted into the bathroom, just managing to reach the toilet before falling to his knees and retching violently. Sam stood from where he fell between the beds and slid to the ground next to his heaving brother. He reached around and propped Dean against his chest when he nearly fell head first into the toilet. With one hand around Dean’s waist and another against his forehead keeping his head from slipping forward they remained that way on the cold bathroom floor until Dean slumped against his gigantic little brother and focused on breathing.

“Dean?”

“What?” Sam winced at the pained whisper from what he knew was a raw throat.

“What was that man? That was bad, like really bad.” Dean swiveled his head from his position against his shoulder to look at him. “What did it look like Sam? I just threw up half my organs and a few ribs for good measure.”

“I mean before that.” Dean looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Before you woke up…” He tampered off when he realized his brother wasn’t just trying to avoid talking about what happened but genuinely had no idea what he was talking about.

“Wanna share with the class, Sammy?”

“Forget it; let’s get you back into bed ok?” He flushed the toilet and with a heave he helped his shaky brother off of the floor and into bed.

“Drink this.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean accepted the glass of cool water Sam handed to him and drained it in a few gulps before handing it back. After putting the glass away he tucked his brother into bed for the second time that night. He switched off the lamp but didn’t go back to sleep. How could he after seeing his brother like that. What the hell could he have been dreaming of? He’d never heard his brother make that sound before and it was unsettling.

He curled up on his side watching his brother’s chest rise and fall with slow deep breaths.

Moments later he followed his brother into the land of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unabashed whump is unabashed.


	4. After Dark

The nightmares became a nightly occurrence after that first night. Sam would wake to his brother’s stuttering breaths and painful groans. He’d fine Dean drenched in sweat, hands clawing against the sheets twisted around his shaking body, or curled into a small ball arms wrapped tight around his middle. Sometimes Sam would shake him awake or he’d wake up on his own. Dean was never sick since that first night but like that night he would wake with no recollection of what happened just moments before. Almost as if his mind had been wiped clean. He’d then grumble at Sam for hovering over him “like a creeper” and fall asleep almost instantly.

Although Sam was usually the one with nightmares he knew that Dean had his fair share of them as well. Dean had always been better at hiding just how much they shook him up but he had never been able to completely hide it from his younger brother. But this, this was different.

They were in a small diner in Anyplace, USA getting something to eat before they hit the road for another case. A possible Wendigo in the northern woods of Minnesota. He’d already spent the better part of yesterday trying to convince his brother to let another hunter who lived in the area to take the case and as expected Dean didn’t fall for his concern disguised as practicality and his argument was killed under his intense glare.

While Dean attacked the food in front of him with enthusiasm he took the opportunity to discreetly give his brother a once over. Dean no longer had the sickly pale pallor he had for weeks following the blood loss or the dark smudges underneath his eyes that was too similar to the Rawhead hunt for his liking.

Before he could even think about how ridiculous it would sound he blurted out, “W-what do you dream about?” To his credit Dean did nothing but raise a questioning brow at him as he took another bite of his ham and egg sandwich.

“I mean lately… anything interesting?”

At this Dean put down the remains of his sandwich to full on stare at him.

“What’s this about?”

“Nothing, just curious?” He tried not to squirm under Dean’s scrutiny which was extremely hard. He had this way of staring into your eyes in a way that made it feel as if he could see into the very core of your being.

“Curious? About my dreams? Is this another one of your hippie-dippie health things cause if it is I already told you I’m not doing any of that crap.”

“No. No, look just humor me ok.”

“Fine Sigmund Freud.” Dean paused for a moment before answering. “Huh, now that I think about it I haven’t dreamed about anything in a…” He paused eyes glazing over for just a moment.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, no dreams. Best sleep of my life. Uh if you’re done eating sasquatch we should probably hit the road, lives at stake and all that.” Dean rambled, studiously avoiding eye contact.

Something about what he just said must have brought up some past unwanted memory. Of what exactly Sam didn’t know but Dean was hiding something and it was somehow linked to those nightmares that his brother couldn’t seem to remember. He suspected that whatever was behind the nightmares was so horrific that repressing them was the only way that Dean’s mind could cope. That was what worried him the most. He’s done research on Emotional Repression and it’s not pretty. With the life that his brother has lived, the things he’s seen, the things he’s gone through, when he finally cracks there’s no doubt in Sam’s mind that he’ll shatter and nothing and no one will be able to piece him back together again.

“Yeah, sure.” Dean smiled grateful that he was letting this go for now. It was better that his brother thought that because he was definitely _not_ letting this go. Secrecy is costly, especially in their family. It cost them their own father. If John had just told him what he planned to do with the materials Sam brought him that day in the hospital than maybe he could have talked him out of it, maybe together they could have found a way to save Dean without either one of them having to die. But the Winchester name was synonymous with secrecy and out of all them no one kept their cards close to the vest like Dean did.

It was almost an art the way Dean would dance and dodge around anything too personal, too deep, too real. The countless times he’d tried to get his brother to give, just even a little all ended in the same way. He could see the moment the barriers that Dean built to keep everyone away were put up and his questions were met with loaded silence and at best one worded answers and grunts.

Sam got it. He understood that there were some things that just couldn’t be shared with anyone, not even those closest to you. With Dean that seemed to be just about everything. The only time his brother let his barriers down were in rare moments when he thought no one was watching. A fond smile when “Hey Jude” played on the radio. A guilty grimace whenever Sam got injured on a hunt. A haunted gaze every time his fingers brushed against a scar that he refuses to talk about. Secrets were what made the both of them as damaged as they were now.

But this, this is different.

At least that’s what he’s telling himself when he handed his brother a beer with a little something extra inside. From what he understood it would be tasteless as to not rouse suspicion. It was through sheer luck that he found the ritual. He had been absentmindedly flipping through his dad’s journal when it caught his eye. The Invocation of St. Anthony. The spell was said to be effective in finding lost objects and people but he figured repressed memories could count as a lost object or at least he hoped.

“Having another inner monologue there, Sammy?” Dean asked breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Shut up.” He continued flicking through the channels while watching Dean take his first sip out of the corner of his eye. If anything was off he didn’t show it so he allowed himself to relax.

“Dude!”

Sam jumped at the sudden shout. Maybe the journal was wrong and the ingredients he whipped up weren’t so tasteless after all.

“You just skipped over Die Hard. No one skips over John McClane, Sam. I thought I raised you better than that.” Dean lamented with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m sorry I skipped over your man crush bro.” He dodged the dirty sock thrown his way and laughed when he saw his brother already giving the movie his full attention.

Less than an hour later Dean crawled into bed and a few seconds later his soft snores could be heard underneath his covers. Sam waited another half hour before he stood and quietly gathered the materials needed to finish the ritual. He quickly mixed the ingredients together and with a finger carefully drew the proper emblem on his sleeping brother’s forehead before muttering a few words. He waited a few moments but besides the symbol glowing for a few seconds before fading nothing else happened. He settled back on his own bed to wait, it wasn’t long until he too was fast asleep.

 

………………………….

 

When Dean came to he knew immediately where he was. He would never forget the hotel where his dad found out that Sam ran away under his watch. He recognized the tacky wallpaper and dingy carpet beneath him, and he sure as hell remembered the deep growl of the impala pulling up outside. A few seconds later the door burst open and a very peeved John Winchester stormed in slamming the door behind him. Even though he knew it was just a dream he couldn’t help but flinch and his heart was hammering away in his chest.

“Dad I’m sor-“ Just like the first time it happened the fist interrupted him and sent him sprawling backwards, his back slamming painfully against the mini fridge. He expected it. What he didn’t expect was the vicious kick that had him bent over gasping for breath.

This wasn’t how it happened. Yes, his dad had hit him but it was only once and he immediately apologized afterwards, anger forgotten while he dabbed away at the blood that trickled from his busted lip. He was snapped out of his thoughts when another kick connected with the arm he was propped up with and he hissed when he heard a distinct pop.

“You had one job, Dean! One fucking job! Take care of Sam and where the hell is he?!”

“I-I don’t know sir.” He gritted out through clenched teeth. His elbow was definitely dislocated if the waves of pain shooting from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder was any indication.

“You don’t know? You don’t know!? Fucking good for nothing! What good are you if you can’t watch over your own brother!?”

He knew this was a nightmare, a really fucked up version of one of his worst memories but a nightmare nevertheless. He just had to wake up. He closed his eyes willing his body to get with the program and get him out of this freaking mess.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you damn it!” His eyes snapped open when he felt John’s massive hands press up against both sides of his head, fingers roughly pushing against his scalp.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” The mantra came out shakily, the pressure of his dad’s fingers starting to increase.

“S-stop!” He gasped when the fingers dug in even further and he felt the warmth of his own blood dripping down his head and down his face in a macabre shower but still the fingers pushed in and he opened his mouth to scream.

……………………………

 

Sam was awake instantly when he heard the gut wrenching scream. He was on his feet and across the room before he even registered where it was coming from. Dean was kneeling on the ground eyes screwed shut and hands clenching his head in between his hands. And the sounds coming from him. _God_.

He slid to his knees in front of his brother and grabbed at Dean’s wrists but they weren’t budging.

“Dean! Dean open your eyes, you’re okay. I didn’t know this would happen. Come on, Dean look at me. It’s Sam, just open you eyes. I’m so sorry, please, Dean!” Suddenly forest green eyes were peering into his hazel ones and he reeled back at the complete devastation and pain he saw there.

“What did you do Sam?! What did…you do…?” Dean grounded out in an equally wrecked voice.

With that he crumpled to the grown in a heap, completely out cold. Sam reached out a trembling hand and nearly cried in relief at the strong pulse beneath his fingers.

_What did you do?_

His stomach flipped and he hunched over willing himself not be sick. Not when Dean was still slumped over on the dirty motel floor because of something _he_ did. Getting his unconscious brother back into bed proved difficult with his legs trembling the way they were but he managed to get Dean situated comfortably before sitting on the edge of his bed.

When he decided to do the ritual he knew that whatever Dean remembered would be bad. Sam naively thought that once he got his brother to open up as much as Dean _could_ open up that he could put this behind him and the nightmares would taper off to what was normal for them. He never wanted this. He’s never seen his older brother in so much _pain_.

_What did you do?_

Sam knew that this was his fault, there was no denying it but Dean knew what was behind this and Sam was going to get him to talk. One way or another.

 

………………………..

 

The first thing he was aware of was a pounding headache. _What the hell? Am I hungover?_ But he didn’t recall hitting up any bars… Then he remembered. John’s raged filled eyes, the pain shooting up his injured arm and he lurched up with a gasp. Suddenly Sam’s gigantor hand was on his shoulder and the other hand held a glass of water that he gratefully accepted.

_What good are you if you can’t watch over your own brother!?_

He cringed and placed the half full glass of water on the nightstand.

“Dean.”

Crap. He knew that tone. It meant a conversation that he didn’t want to happen was definitely going to happen right then and there.

“Dean.” Sam sounded peeved and damn it he has no right! Whatever happened last night happened because of him. He remembers the overwhelming guilt on Sam’s face right before he lost consciousness. Dean cradles his still throbbing head in his hands hyper aware that Sam is staring at him most likely sporting an epic bitchface, the small vein in his jaw twitching with every heartbeat but he can’t bring himself to care because he _remembers_. The shitty motel. John’s screaming face. The pain. Wishing he could just blink out of existence. He’s not supposed to remember. John promised. It shouldn’t be happening again. He can still feel the lingering sensation of his dad’s fingers pushing into his head and the largest of his scars feels hot and itchy. He moves his hand to brush against it and yeah its not his imagination, the skin underneath his fingers is warmer than it should be and for a moment it feels as if something underneath the skin shifted…

“I’m sorry, Dean.” He looked up to see Sam’s imitation of a morose puppy, downright remorseful and doesn’t that piss him off. In a second he’s up and in Sam’s face.

“What the hell did you do, Sam!?”

“There was a ritual in Dad’s journal, The Invocation of-“

“St. Anthony. I know it. You…how did you get me to ingest the ingredients?”

“I-I put it in your beer. Just calm down alright.”

“Calm down! Fuck Sam you messed with my head. My own _brother_ thought it would be okay to drug me without my knowledge or consent. How am I-“ He stopped abruptly but what he wanted to say hung heavily between them.

_How am I supposed to trust you?_

Sam’s stricken look was proof enough that he understood.

“You know what forget it.” His outburst took a lot out of him, more than it should have but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He slid back on his bed and Sam silently sat on the bed opposite.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah I know. It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to forgive me. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back-“

“I never _said_ I forgave you. I said it was fine. It doesn’t matter anyway.” Sam’s eyes narrowed and he immediately regretted his choice of words.

“That’s the problem, Dean. It does matter. _You_ matter but I seem to be the only one here that seems to think so! Is it too much for you to care about yourself for once! I want you to care about you as much as _I_ care about you.”

“If this is how you show you care then I’d hate to see when you don’t.”

Once the words left his lips he felt like a complete ass even though he wasn’t the one in the wrong. But only he could make his little brother look like _that_. Completely and utterly wrecked. He reached over to grasp Sam’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with this before. I- I can deal with it again.”

And there lay the problem. He had his dad right there with him through it all. Now John was gone he had no idea where to even begin.

“Deal with what before?”

“It’s not-“

“Dean if you say its not important I swear to God I-“ He looked away for a moment before continuing. “Just please. I need to know. I want to help.”

“There is no helping. Dad tried.”

“Dad knew?’

“Yeah…” He was hesitant but what the hell, the kid was smart, he’d figure it out on his own somehow someway.

“Just…just don’t overreact. Try to keep your hysterics in check if you can.” His attempt to lighten the mood fell flat and was met with a grim face so he cleared his throat and got comfortable against the headboard.

“So there’s this…thing that’s been kind of watching me. Stalking sort of.”

“Watching you, does it have to do with the yellow-eyed…”

“No. It’s not demonic.”

“Then what then?”

“I’d tell you if you would just stop interrupting me.”

“Sorry.” Dean returned his attention to his hands.

“So it’s not a demon, or a spirit, or anything we’ve ever come across. Dad and I researched liked crazy, talked to hunters, psychics, shamans, experts on the occult and turned up nothing. None of the hundreds of wards or banishments we’ve used worked either so basically I’ve just been living with it.”

He looked up at a silent and pensive Sam.

“Questions?”

Sam contemplated for a moment before answering.

“How long?”

“Since it started?” A nod.

“Uh. Since the fire.” Dean answered body tense waiting for the inevitable outburst.

“Since you were four?! That’s years Dean. Two freaking decades! Why didn’t dad tell me? Why didn’t I know?”

“Cause I asked him not to.” Sam stared at him incredulously but didn’t speak so he continued. “I didn’t want to drag you into this. It wasn’t impor-“ He stopped at his little brother’s livid expression and changed tactics. “I’m handling it.”

“Handling it?” Sam snorted. “I wouldn’t call night terrors _handling_ it.”

“And whose fault is that anyway?” His tone was much sharper than he intended and Sam reeled from the venom in his voice.

“Dean…”

“Look, I lived with it. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Is it watching you right now?” Sam asked peering around the room as if he could catch a glimpse of it.

“No, At least I don’t think so. I- I’m the only one that can see it so there’s no use in looking. If it were here I would know.” Sam stopped his search to study him.

“How?”

“There are…symptoms. Kind of like a fucked up spidey-sense.”

“The nosebleeds?” Sam asked having made the connection in his mind. Kid was smart.

“Yeah, I also kind of space out a bit, but that’s all.”

“So a few weeks ago…”

“Yeah that was it.” He looked down at his hands again. He thought living with it was hard but talking about it with his kid brother was even worse. If this wasn’t indication that Dean Winchester was cursed then he didn’t know what was. A warm hand settled on his forearm, he looked up to find Sam looking at him on the verge of tears and didn’t that just pull his fucking heartstrings.

“Dean, I’m so sorry. I wish… If I had known…”

“Nothing to be sorry about kid.” He petted his brother’s hand reassuringly before pulling away. “S’not hurting anyone.” He stood and crossed over to the fridge, opened a beer and took a healthy swig.

“It hurt you.” Dean looked up, frowning at his brother’s somber tone.

“It is hurting you.”

Sam was looking at him as if he _knew_. Knew about all those nights he slept in the same bed as his dad so that he could be woken before his whimpers turned into screams and woke Sammy. And later when he was much too old to sleep pressed up against his father and he had to learn to stay quiet, to turn on the shower to cover the sound of his sobs when it got to be too much. But then John found a way to stop it and he promised him that he would _never_ have to go through that again. Then Sam came along and he fucked everything up. He wished he had it in him to feel anything less than love for his kid brother but he can’t. And Sam’s right. It did hurt, does hurt. He wants to tell Sam nothing is worth this pain. That he wouldn’t mind too terribly if everything just ended, if he died leaving all the pain behind. He doesn’t say any of this.

Instead he grins.

“Winchester tough, Sammy. Winchester tough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schools starting soon and sleep is a luxury. *tear* I wish I could say this is the latest I'll ever post but that's unlikely. Anyways Thanks for reading this directionless story. Constructive criticism is welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Heads up, I have a super busy schedule *tear* so updates will most likely be randomly spaced apart. I promise to do my best.)


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